Venom
by jackqueenking
Summary: Something sinister is happening to the girls in this city. Field Officer Cullen is assigned to finding the rot and stamping it out. His partner in crime-solving is to be someone he's never met before - Field Agent Swan. It's business as unusual.
1. Chapter 1

VENOM - The Precinct

The Precinct was a dump, and if you had a decent life and a decent home and a decent job, you'd barely be aware that somewhere like this was on the outskirts of your city. But there it was - crime-ridden and corrupt, home to outcasts and broken dreams, host to the hopeless and the irredeemable. If you set foot there, the stench wouldn't come off your shoes. If you didn't throw them away, the rot would climb you like a vine. The Precinct would overtake you, make you its parasite, feeding your gnawing hunger out of its dark belly.

It wasn't somewhere he'd ever been before. It wasn't somewhere he'd ever voluntarily go. But this was work, and work had taken him to many an insalubrious place. It was a dirty job.

After having his wristcode scanned and buying a whiskey he sank down in a chair to the rear of the room, where it was darkest, though it was relatively easy to be unobtrusive at this stage in the night. Most of the clientele of the seedy bar sought to be unobtrusive as well. At least until alcohol loosened their tongues and unbolted the shackles of their inhibitions. Then they'd be loud, crass, vulgar. Disgusting. They'd leer and shout, littering the stage with credits and filling the air with catcalls until the entertainment ended and they either left on their own two legs, or were seen off the premises. The staff were all burly, well-trained, all experienced. They were used to escorting patrons out, or to put it more bluntly, to _kicking _them out, perhaps with a broken nose or a black eye to send the offenders on their sorry way, depending on how offensive they'd been. It seemed not to matter to the louts that their behavior was on record, thanks to the mandatory scanning. Information gathered on any premises was held by the proprietors, ostensibly in confidence, but it was widely though quietly known that information could always be had for a price. To blackname someone, you only had to approach their favorite watering hole with a fistful of credits. Secrets were market-based commodities like any others.

Field Officer Cullen found the entire concept of the place squalid, and deplored his fellow man for its existence. No doubt any random patron he approached on this night, if he was to bring up the idea that this sort of display was demeaning to women, would counter with the assertion that he both loved and admired women, and that his attendance here was testament to his regard for them. The attendee would probably go so far as to claim that the girls here liked their job. No doubt these same men had wives and daughters at home, had sisters and mothers, and would defend them to the death against the lascivious, slack-eyed gazes of any predatory male who would view them as no more than flesh and skin, on display purely for gratification. Cognitive dissonance, that most handy of defences.

And the women themselves? What privation had they endured to have made them so lacking in self-worth and identity that they would seek employment as objects? And what society would be structured in such a way that women could earn more money showing their breasts to slobbering strangers in a dark, dirty pit of iniquity than engaged in work as a teacher or tradesperson, a clerk or shopkeeper?

The first visit here was just the start of it. The place had come to the attention of Civic Administration because of a spate of hospital admissions, beginning a year or so ago, and a spate of deaths. Coroner's reports were sent to CivAd as a matter of course, and some eagle-eyed filing assistant had noticed similarities in several reports and had started asking questions. The affected girls had two things in common - one, a connection to the Precinct. Two, a dark sludge in their blood, a blemish that ailed them and haunted them and drove them to madness. It was a drug never seen before, and the Investigations Unit was called in. A covert operation over months had traced the drug back to the character known as Aro. Agents had been lost along the way, as they'd sampled what came to be known as "Venom" and discovered its dangerous pleasures. Their early reports had said you felt like you ruled the world. You felt ageless and deathless, as if you could live forever. For those agents under deep cover, the reports had stopped. For most of the girls who sampled venom, forever turned out to be a matter of weeks. The drug's combination of causing dramatic fluid loss and an increased heart rate put its users lives at an extreme risk. Venom's seductiveness had girls addicted after their first hit, and dead shortly afterwards.

Cullen was especially morose tonight as he had a new officer serving alongside. Well, alongside and undercover as well, and right now he had no idea where she was or how she was faring. She had been introduced to him earlier in the week as Swan, and his first thought was that she seemed absurdly young. She looked no more than a teenager, though a quick perusal of her file had informed him she was twenty-five. It also informed him that she was some sort of wunderkind, having graduated from the Academy with the highest aggregate mark of her year. Apparently she was dedicated, astute, and highly accurate with a gun. That was all very well, but in tonight's role she would have nowhere to put a gun. The report also indicated that she was skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but Cullen had been standing right next to her when they were briefed on the assignment, and she was not only of short stature, she was thin, and didn't look like she'd be able to hold off anybody bigger than a child. Hence his worry.

They both had parts to play, acting being a major component of the sort of work they were engaged in, and Cullen's part was to play a dirty misogynist pervert, out for a night's drinking at a girly bar. Swan's role was to apply for a job as a stripper. Their quarry was a notorious vice lord whose name had been spilled any number of times by any number of petty criminals, but who had always managed either to evade capture, or to avoid being caught with anything positively incriminating. Swan was to get a job, succumb to a drug addiction, and ask him to supply her. When he did, she and Cullen would bust him. It was hugely risky for Swan, given the danger of the drug.

Staring into his whisky, Cullen told himself for the thousandth time that this line of work would destroy his soul. He told himself that he shouldn't have dropped out of medical school. That he should have kept up with his jazz piano. That he should have... should have...

And then the stage lights came on and the music started, and Cullen remembered - biting the inside of his cheek and tasting the hard metal of his own blood - remembered why he was here when he saw the sad eyes, the gauntness, the trackmarks on the arms and the sores on the ankles of the girl who came out onto the stage. He was here because she was.

She could have been fifteen or fifty, blonde or brunette, Anneke or Zoii - she was everygirl and no-one, she was the universal archetype - Woman, reviled by man.

Because she was the first out, the audience were disinterested and subdued. "Better" girls were saved for later. She gyrated around with no enthusiasm or vigor, and clearly hadn't had a fix yet. Judging by how thin she was she had already had far too much over the last few weeks anyway.

As Cullen watched, a heartbreaking parade passed by. He wondered how many of them were struggling to support children, or sick relatives. Putting siblings through school. Paying off loan sharks. It was dismal and relentless, half an hour, another half, another half. He had to keep buying drinks, because the clientele were expected to, and he couldn't afford to draw attention to himself, and every time he went to the bar he came close to the stage and saw the deadness in the girls' eyes.

By the fifth girl he was starting to feel concerned that Swan hadn't appeared yet. Certainly she was nowhere near as sallow as these pitiable creatures - but Cullen assumed the fleshier, more well-endowed girls would be show-cased later in the program, and his discreet scrutiny of Swan at their briefings hadn't shown much to speak of as far as breasts and hips went. He was about to make for the backstage door to investigate when the music changed. The lighting changed. The mood changed.

Sensing something different was about to happen, chairlegs scraped on the grimy floor as audience members shifted. The more blase merely leant forward in their seats; those less used to the spectacle stood and shuffled forward.

For all his training, for all his experience, for all his professionalism, Cullen couldn't suppress the gasp of surprise as Field Agent Swan strode to the centre of the stage in a facsimile of an old-fashioned early-century police officer's uniform. Encased sleekly head-to-toe in close-fitting charcoal, she paced to and fro, glaring at the crowd. Swinging along one thigh was a long baton, to the side of her hip was a set of handcuffs, and on the other hip a pistol. The uniform continued to stray from accuracy to titillation with tight bullet belts across her chest, delineating small but upright breasts, and a shoulder pocket containing a communicator. Her hair was pulled severely back, with a helmet sitting atop it. Despite the half-face screen on the helmet, Cullen still knew her. The ridiculous four-inch heels of the faux-biker boots made her legs look yards long, and she showed no difficulty in balancing on them. When she uncoiled a whip she'd had dangling from one shoulder and began trailing it along the ground behind her, he wondered what she was going to do. When she gracefully and almost lazily stepped backwards, whip before her, and raised the handle, then with a move like lightning cracked the thong so hard every man in the place winced, he wondered who he was working with.

When she dropped the whip and whirled back to centrestage, unbuttoning her shirt and running the communicator - tubular and about six inches long - up and down the valley between her breasts, he wondered if he'd underestimated her.

Seconds later, he _knew_ he had.

No-one had noticed the pole which had suddenly descended to the centre of the stage until Swan stroked it in her hands, and in the smooth execution of a move that elicited a collective growl, she unclasped the cuffs from the clip on her waist, hooked them smoothly around the pole, then around her wrists. She was trapped.

The music throbbed and pulsed, as Swan began tugging at her bindings. Arms clasped in such an awkward embrace, she began to gyrate around the pole in a blend of dance and desperation, now embracing it, now pulling away. Men rose from their chairs and moved forward, crowding as she writhed sinuously in a display of breathtaking agility. Cullen himself moved closer, completely unknowing as to how she was going to get herself out of the situation before her eager audience actually climbed the steps and descended upon her. The soundtrack to her struggles pounded with greater urgency, and she reached with seeming frustration to push the helmet off, releasing cascades of dark hair.

It was becoming too much. He'd had no idea she was planning this. It was dangerous and he would have told her no if she'd confided in him. He was going to have to rescue her from the men who were about to storm the stage and put their hands on her while she was restrained and unable to escape the lechery they would subject her to. He was just reaching for the nerve gun concealed in his jacket lining when Swan resolved the situation herself.

In a smooth, sudden twist, she shifted her hips to the pole, legs stretching vertically along it. Suspended upside-down, she slid her light-gun from its holster. Then she flipped herself, landing feet flat on the floor, and swept the room with the nozzle of her weapon, glowering at each man there in the eye. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the gun neatly inward and shot through the link of the cuffs.

The music ended and the audience were too stunned to move. Their stripper hadn't shed any clothes, was armed and was clearly dangerous. Field Agent Swan aimed her weapon into the air and fired it, and nothing happened. She held her arms out and pulled the cuffs easily from them, as though the metal were paper. She yanked at her shirt and it fell apart, leaving her standing in tight pants, those killer boots, and a transparent bra. Then she yanked at the pants too, disintegrating them to reveal transparent panties. The audience cautiously started to cheer and clap. Cullen's breath caught. Very, very smart, he thought. The cuffs had been made of short-chain polymer, looking just just like metal. Her clothes were of similar synthetic construction - they appeared dense but had the consistency of paper.

She had nerves of steel, to have come out like that with an artificial though realistic gun and cuffs. Without the finishing touch of the fake clothes she could have been in serious trouble, though now that they understood the ruse, the men were cheering. They wanted the underwear off as well. Cullen registered that though Swan was skinny, she had some curvature, and her taut muscles were decidedly feminine. No doubt the more popular performers would be a lot more rounded, and a lot less edgy, but Swan had certainly managed to attract attention. She turned her back on the audience and wiggled her derriere at them, cheekily, bending forward and grabbing her ankles so that her long hair swept the floor.

Applause broke out, then laughter and shouting. Credits were thrown on the stage. Fright had turned to relief as the men realized how brave and jaunty she was, and then that they could see her ass through her panties.

The next girl came out, and she had big tits and generous hips, with solid, reassuring thighs. She got straight down to business, removing her blouse, and was cheered. Order was restored.

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	2. Chapter 2

VENOM - The Club

Cullen watched the next couple of girls with no interest at all, wanting to get the hell out of there. Foot tapping had been a nervous disorder of his since childhood - now his heel beat a tattoo completely out of sync with any of the music, not that anyone would know or care. He barely knew it himself. He just knew that he was restless, he was tense, there was an _imperative_ that he find and confront Swan. Preferably she'd have clothes on, or he'd lose his train of thought.

Curtly nodding to the doorman before turning his collar up against the stark white light of the doorway, he ambled out, emulating the gait of many of the patrons once they'd imbibed their allotment of liquor. Alcohol was strictly regulated here - you could get drunk enough to think you were having a good time, but not so drunk that you'd be no good for work in the morning. Society needs its drones.

Waiting for Field Agent Swan several blocks away, Cullen resolved to reprimand her. Her stunt could have gotten them both killed. As it was, it had nearly given him heart failure. If they were to work together they'd have to plan together, and they'd have to be aware of what one another's moves were going to be. The more he thought about her temerity, the more it bothered him. He lit a cigarette for something to do until she turned up. Since carcinogen-free tobacco had become available a few years ago, the uptake of smoking had been widespread. An expensive habit, it wasn't a deadly one, and Cullen figured he could afford the credits it cost to keep his otherwise ever-fluttering hands occupied. One was occupied now with the cigarette, the other with making a mess of his already unruly hair. Where the hell was his partner?

She appeared at last, hurrying through the dark street, shoulders hunched against the shadows.

Cullen eyed her lazily and without undue interest as she hailed a passing road-train and got into it, then he ground the stub of his smoke under his heel and caught a hover cab, following a few blocks behind.

By the time he reached the rendezvous site he was seething, having spent the intervening twenty minutes re-living the scenario in the club.

"What. The. Fuck? Are you insane?" were the first words he spat out, letting himself into the apartment.

She turned, all pale face and dark coat tightly belted at the waist, hands to the elastic band that held her long hair. She yanked it free, hair tumbling.

"What the fuck yourself?" she answered coolly. "Did you find anything out?"

"Plenty. I found out my partner is a foolhardy danger-seeker who wants to put this operation in jeopardy to indulge her secret dream of becoming some kind of sex-aerialist."

"I was following orders."

"You were following some goddamned inexplicable desire to be assaulted by twenty apes all at the same time."

Swan glared at him. "Let's get this straight, Cullen. You were meant to go in there, look sleazy, hang around and listen to guys talking and see if anyone mentioned drugs or scoring or dealing or hitting, or anything related. I was meant to speak to the management, give them my portfolio and ask for a public audition, while keeping my ears open for what the other girls might be saying. I didn't get any leads, but then I didn't expect to on the first night, and I'm guessing the same will be true for you. Am I right?"

"Guys don't speak much to one another in that sort of a place. Everyone in there is a wanker, _literally_. Knowing that and chatting in a friendly way to the man standing next to you are a little mutually exclusive. It's going to take me a few visits to build up anyone's trust enough to talk to them. You and I knew that going in. We knew this assignment could take weeks, and even then not yield much. You went way, _way_ too far with that routine you performed, _and_ you risked exposing yourself to danger."

"Look, you just said it yourself - this could take weeks. Months, even. Well, I don't want it to take that long. This Aro character - every day he's not locked up is another day he's a criminal, and he's hurting people. I decided to take a short cut and attract attention - you think that's a bad thing? I want results sooner, not later."

"Yes, it's a bad thing. You were acting unilaterally. Your spontaneity could undo months of surveillance work that other agents have sweated blood over."

"Bullshit. I'm accelerating this plan. If you don't agree, apply for a transfer and get me someone else."

Cullen regarded Swan with narrow-eyed calculation. They were employed by a special branch of CivAd, a top-level security department called the Civic Criminal Apprehension Agency, or Double See Double Ay. CCAA had a strict no-buddy policy. For a caper like this, out-of-towners were called in, agents who'd never met. They were sent immediately into the field without being given any opportunity to bond. The reasoning behind this system was that if an officer was endangered or hurt in the line of duty, their partner would be emotionally unaffected and would be able to maintain cover, rather than attempting defence or help. If Swan had been been in any serious trouble from the feral men at the club, Cullen's expected response would have been either inaction, or to join in with the aggressors. Despite having a common goal, CCAA officers deployed on a mission were not encouraged to be team players, and their training drilled into them that individuals didn't matter in the big picture. It wasn't until that common goal was in clear sight that co-operation was expected.

Accepting of the doctrine as he was, Cullen was pissed to have been put in the position where he might have had to watch his stranger-partner being hurt.

"Well, don't pull this trick again tomorrow. Tone it down," he glowered at her. "You didn't look like you were on drugs - you looked like you were trying out for the porn olympics."

"And your problem is?" she demanded. "I'm going to nail this guy. Word is that he likes novelties - well, did you see anyone else in there like me tonight? I'll put on such a show tomorrow night and every damn night that the whole Precinct is going to be talking about it - and he'll get to hear. I'm going to draw him out of wherever the fuck he's hiding, and we're going to get him."

"You're ignoring the protocol we were given."

"You bet I am."

Cullen narrowed his eyes.

"Swan, have you got some sort of personal vendetta against this guy? Yeah - he's scum. Yeah - we want to clean up this town, one crook at a time. But you seem very invested. You need to distance yourself. Getting emotionally involved will cause you to make mistakes."

"You're quoting straight from the manual, Cullen. I read it, I passed the test, and I'll keep your thoughts in mind. See you tomorrow night."

Still angry, and feeling bleak, Cullen left the building ahead of Swan, walking a couple of blocks before hailing another hover cab. He was housed in the Precinct for the purpose of this assignment, and was laboring nine hour shifts in a factory. People didn't ask too many questions around here, so his sudden appearance at the foreman's door asking for work had engendered no curiosity. None of the other workers asked him anything either.

He slept poorly, wondering if he had been assigned a dive-bomber for a partner. Dive-bombers were agents who weren't going to make it. Either they couldn't detach themselves from the work and got too involved, or they tried to go it alone and got over-confident and careless, or they cracked up. Swan was clearly on a crusade, but she had to know if she wanted to take Aro down her way, with Cullen following the rule book, she'd be doing it solo. Cullen didn't like it one little bit. He didn't like her chances, and he didn't like to think of what might happen to her if she failed. He prided himself on not having a lost a partner since he'd been with the CCAA. He wasn't ready to lose one yet.

The next night Cullen was late to the club and the show had started. There were more punters in there than the night before - possibly an indication that word had gotten around there was a new girl with a hell of an act. He bought two whiskeys and took a table near enough for a clear view.

It took longer for Swan to come out tonight - she must have been bumped to a higher position in the lineup. That might mean her plan was working. Eight or ten unmemorable girls paraded jerkily past while Cullen smoked and waited.

Then the stagelights went off completely and the music changed. Typically, the club played continuous thumping dirges with a speed of about 100 bpm, or the heart rate of a healthy person experiencing the early stages of sexual arousal. Now something unexpected came tripping from the concealed speakers - it was a single lilting melodic line with a sad edge to it - and a wandering spotlight began to circle in the dark, searching for something. It found its quarry soon enough.

On the black and dirty stage floor a girl lay dressed in white. As the sinuous melody weaved around her she slowly lifted first her head, then her arms, then raised herself slowly into a sitting position. The audience were silent, watching this display that was surely not a common occurrence in this place. Of course, it was Swan, her face and skin milk pale, her hair secured behind her head and seemingly covered with a white feather. Once standing, her full costume could be seen, and it was unusual, though Cullen recognized the style from old images he'd seen. She had some sort of tight-fitting bodice with thin straps over her shoulders, and then from her hips layers of frothy fabric sprang out, barely covering the tops of her thighs. She began to swirl and sway, and then to twirl around, her movements motivated by the melody.

"She's a dive-bomber all right," Cullen thought to himself, reluctantly impressed at her audacity in performing ballet in a strip club.

A slow chant began from the men nearer the front, as after two minutes of grace and prettiness they wanted some action. Swan ignored them, turning around and giving a flourish with one slender hand. She raised her leg at the same time, toe pointed, muscles smooth and firm. Then she spun slowly around, her outstretched leg so high that her foot was above the level of her shoulder. She wore no underwear. In these times women tended to get genetic re-programming done to prevent the growth of body-hair, but shockingly, Swan displayed dark gleaming curls for all to see, with the tantalizing pink between them looking like an exotic shell. She must have applied some sort of glitter gel, making her curls glisten under the lights. Either that, or she... no, Cullen couldn't think about the alternative. Swan was his partner. Not a woman, _not _a woman.

The men in the bar saw her as a woman and nothing more. Applause broke out, cheering started, and the whistles came loud and piercing, drowning out the delicate music. Cullen nearly choked on his cigarette, had to take a mouthful of whiskey, and nearly choked on that, too. Below him, Swan flashed the audience again, elegantly. There was one glimpse of her very shapely behind when she leaped into the air and the skirt flipped up, and then she'd disappeared, flown from sight behind the curtain.

The whiskey served here was diluted so heavily as to have almost no alcohol content, which was just as well, so a punter would have to drink a hell of a lot before he became intoxicated. Cullen bought two more, slamming them down in quick succession, then went outside to lean against a wall, hands in pockets, waiting to check that Swan got out safely.

"You know you're fucking crazy, right?" was the first thing he said to her at the rendezvous.

"The backstage manager said Aro's going to come down personally tomorrow night and check me out," she returned smoothly. "Crazy seems to be getting the desired result."

"And you're a trained dancer." He fired it like an accusation.

"No personal questions, Cullen. You've memorized chapter one of How To Be A Secret Operative - didn't you get to chapter two?"

"Yes, Swan, I made it to the second chapter. That's where it says "Stick to the plan, we're not interested in your initiative, and don't take unnecessary risks", remember?"

"No. My copy said, "Get the job done by any means necessary."

Cullen glowered. "So are you going to warn me what you've got in store for tomorrow night?"

"You're supposed to be a punter, just like all the other guys in there. You need to look just as surprised as everyone else."

"I'll say one thing for you, Swan. You've got balls."

"Actually, I don't. Weren't you watching?"

No personal questions, no attachments, no buddies. Those were the rules. Nursing a real whiskey back at his cell accommodation, not the dishwater served up by the club bartenders, Cullen revised the rules, and thought about his partner. Yes, she was foolhardy, but he admired her courage. Detached as he was supposed to be, he knew if she got into trouble he'd go flying over tables to tackle whoever was daring to bother her. Do not think, _do not think_, he told himself, about that frail slenderness of hers and the milky skin, the way she could could bend with such suppleness, the firm set of her expression contrasting with the curves of her limbs. Above all, do _not _picture that startling smoky triangle at the apex of her thighs, the delicacy below it and between them. It's one of your business, Cullen, this is a _job_.

And Swan took the job very seriously. It seemed that she was prepared to risk her safety for this mission, perhaps to risk everything. Cullen couldn't stand it. Suddenly he knew with certainty that this would be his last assignment for the CCAA. Never mind the no-buddy policy, he'd see Swan through, stick by her, watch her back. He'd even be the dive-bomber himself if it meant protecting her. And if he didn't take a bullet, or a lethal shock from a nerve-gun, once Aro was de-commissioned, Cullen would hand in his papers and get the CivAd I-D swiped from his wrist. Anonymity after termination of employment was written into every agent's contract. He'd be Joe Blow nobody, living a quiet life.

All that stood between him and his future was Aro. Cullen would do everything in his power to assist Swan, get Aro out of action and close down the operation.

And he'd put himself in the way of any threat to the brittle, fierce, ballet-dancing unstoppable force he'd been assigned as a colleague.

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_Sod's Law reigns supreme. As soon as I want to post something, all hell breaks loose in my house and I can't read or concentrate. Sorry if this has mistakes. I'll check it when I get the chance, like _next century_._

_Btw this new everything Ffn has introduced so gratuitously is playing havoc with my limited technical skills and brain power._

_The only constant is change, right? Get used to it, jqk, and stop your whining._


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